


Couldn't See You Coming

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Bottom Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Canon Queer Character of Color, Canon Queer Relationship, Cock Worship, Come Swallowing, Comeplay, Deepthroating, Domestic, Dry Humping, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Feelings, Filthy, Foot Fetish, Frottage, Hair Pulling, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Kink Meme, Kneeling, Lap Sex, Light Dom/sub, Love, M/M, Malta, Masturbation, Mild Kink, No Angst, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Romance, Rough Sex, Service Submission, Service Top, Service Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Sexual Tension, Slice of Life, Smut, Sort Of, Switch Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Switch Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, That Time in Malta Was a Prolonged D/s Session, The Author Striving for Historical Accuracy and Hoping for the Best, Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Topping from the Bottom, Wet & Messy, What Happened in Malta (The Old Guard)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26053075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Sometimes, he looks at Yusuf as if it were hurting him to do so.A Malta romance, in acts of love.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 108
Kudos: 590





	Couldn't See You Coming

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Ivy" by Frank Ocean.
> 
> I mainly wanna say that I love these two so much. I don't think you _understand_. I started writing this story on Monday in a bit of a frenzy, and it's been consuming my life ever since. I sincerely hope you enjoy the read!
> 
> Special thanks to [figure8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/stonecarved) for taking the time to read my desperate ranting in the chat and offer assistance and much-needed reassurance. <3

Innocently enough, it starts when Yusuf returns from tending to the goats late into the morning, forehead beaded with sweat from the already sweltering summer heat, and finds their cottage littered with Nicolò's tunics. It occurs to him they must have been in that state when Nicolò woke him for first prayer that day and when they broke their fast across from each other seated at their tiny table and when Yusuf pressed their mouths together before Nicolò left for the village and Yusuf rounded their house for the goat shelter.

He can't imagine why he didn't notice at the time, other than the fact that he must have been distracted, sleep still biting at his heels, the dimness of the room contributing to his sightlessness. Or, the thought pops into his head a brief second later, this has been the state of their cottage for several days now, to the point where Yusuf's grown inadvertently accustomed to it, which is a thought that verily frightens him to his very innards.

Once he starts looking closer, however, he realises Nicolò's clothes aren't the only objects out of place. Clean pots and cups and utensils, as well as weapons, cover every available surface, of which there are not many to begin with. The vaguely amusing thing is precisely that they are _clean_ , that these are things Nicolò has scrubbed and polished, yet has decided against putting away for whatever reason. Knowing fully that Nicolò is far from slothful makes this entire situation all the more confusing.

For the time being he leaves it be, making off for their garden after a mild midday meal, resolved to bring it up with Nicolò in the evening once there remain no pressing or persuasive chores to attend to. He spends the hours until early afternoon raising beds to counteract the poorly-drained soil until he'll discover an adequate method of effectively avoiding water pools long-term, only leaving his work to drink his fill of freshwater from their well and for washing and subsequent prayer.

Eventually, he spots Nicolò returning, his gait relaxed as he walks up the path to the back of the house, and he makes the immediate decision to join him inside. Despite not feeling the bite of hunger just yet, he likes for them to eat their meals together whenever they can, to immerse himself in their companionship at every step of their odd lives.

When he comes in, Nicolò is hovering by the table, wiping his sweaty face with the front of his tunic, his spoils from the market in front of him. What catches Yusuf's eye straight away are three round, fat peaches set aside from the rest of the market things, as if in place of honour, and which Yusuf recognises only because they both tasted this particular fruit when they were in Persia years ago. None grow on this island; at least, not where Yusuf has seen. Therefore, they must have been a hard barter for Nicolò, though Yusuf has a known fondness for them and will thus not protest their purchase.

He glances at Nicolò and catches him already gazing his way, sluggish contentment in his expression.

"You have made some interesting barter today," he comments, tone playful and inviting conversation.

Nicolò, for his part, smiles gratefully almost, motioning for Yusuf to seat himself. He does, regretful at the momentary silence, but content in the shadow of his smiles nonetheless. He then watches him bustle about, bringing out olives and the pastizzi with peas Yusuf likes and the ones with ricotta Nicolò can't get enough of. They eat their fill, Yusuf more inclined to listen to Nicolò's longed-for talk of the village and the people, to watch him eat with evident appetite, the quiet stoicism he often falls into disappearing in lieu of animated gestures and broad vowels.

After they finish and Nicolò puts the rest of the food away, only the three peaches remain. He retakes his seat, but his eyes seemingly refuse to linger on them, his gaze sharply intent on Yusuf's instead.

Without even a peek, Nicolò motions towards them. "For you," he explains, which Yusuf doesn't immediately comprehend. Then, "They're yours."

Puzzled, Yusuf plainly offers, "Share them with me," only for Nicolò to shake his head hard enough that his hair, a little longish on the sides, brushes across his face. The ends curl with leftover sweat from the day. By his sides, Yusuf's fingers itch.

His beloved is, without a doubt, stubborn as a mule; but the mood is light, so he indulges him, certain he can persuade him to have an eventual taste. He reaches for the first and bites into it until lush juices drip down his chin and the flesh tears between his teeth.

He finds he's finished it before long, the inside of his mouth sweet with its ripeness, all the while Nicolò's watching him from across the table with a faintly greedy expression on his open face, mouth slightly parted, lips flushed and a little swollen, the arch of his collarbone showing at the opening of his tunic. His feet are flat to the floor, knees splayed open.

The second one Yusuf offers to him outright, its heft comfortable in his palm, but Nicolò leans back from it as if it were poisoned.

"You are a strange man," he mutters measuredly, not unkindly, before taking a bite and then another, their eyes locked on each other, speaking glances in the space between them. Nicolò curls his upper lip in that way of his which makes Yusuf's balls throb and his cock idly fill.

Once finished, he licks his fingers satisfyingly languidly, planning on saving the third for their evening meal and another attempt at halfing it with Nicolò.

He doesn't know what prompts him to say it now, even though he decided that tonight would be a better time altogether, other than the stickiness he can feel across the lower part of his face and his palms, tangling his thoughts together oddly. "It seems I am the one making a mess this time." When Nicolò throws him an inquisitive look, Yusuf barks out a laugh, can't help himself, and clarifies, "Our house is a mess because of you."

It startles Nicolò, this accusation. He instantly looks around them as if seeing the space for the very first time. His brows furrow in quiet consternation. Yusuf wants to trace his fingers over his eyebrows and smooth them over. Instead, he waits for Nicolò to turn back to him and make a pronouncement.

"Well," he decides on, and Yusuf both wants to laugh heartily and shake his head at him, doing neither in the end.

"Well?" he prods, tipping forward a little, elbows on the table's edge.

Chewing at his lips thoughtfully, Nicolò takes his time in replying. "Does it bother you?" he asks, not timid, just matter-of-factly curious.

The question, somehow, catches Yusuf off-guard. He swallows heavily, mouth all of a sudden filled with saliva for no apparent reason.

"Our home should be neat," he finally manages. A sudden blush creeps along his face to burn at the tops of his cheekbones, but the matter rests there, with Nicolò's succinct nod, and they both make their way outside shortly, Nicolò to take his turn in the garden, Yusuf finding his work cut out for him with the goats.

He finds himself distracted, and hurries his work along to return inside the house before twilight. He could call out for Nicolò, but he knows his time best. Hardly needs Yusuf to make it for him.

The room is how they left it. Without giving it much thought beyond an internal call for action, Yusuf crosses to their bed to pick up the first of Nicolò's clothes to have caught his eye earlier at the start of this. From there, he picks up every item of clothing and puts them neatly away after ascertaining they are all indeed clean, followed by household objects which he knows for a fact have a proper place somewhere else. It hardly takes him an hour. As he closes the upper door of their armoire, iron hinges rattling with the movement, twilight is just settling in outside, the last rays of sunshine fluttering into sumptuous shadows through the slit windows.

As he's lighting their thickest candle, Nicolò finally enters the house, a pleasant darkness at his back. Yusuf doesn't know what he expected, but it's certainly not for him to halt in his tracks so suddenly his feet skid a little on the stone floor, his eyes roaming around the room the only sign he has indeed not turned into a pillar of stone.

Their eyes eventually catch and hold. Yusuf sets the candle down by their bedside and walks the distance to stand in front of Nicolò just as he's raising his arms to the back to grab at his tunic and pull it loosely over his head until he is bare from the waist up. He then drops it between them. A casual, unhurried gesture.

Yusuf doesn't stop to think, which is not much of a change, he thinks at himself sardonically, and dips at the waist to courteously pick it up for him. Before he can even stand upright properly, Nicolò's palm snakes forward, quick as a whip, to latch onto the wrist of the hand currently holding the fabric. His grip is like a vice, but, idly, almost through a haze, Yusuf realises he doesn't much mind. In fact, an enjoyable pressure widens out from the point of contact.

There's a crackling tension around them Yusuf can't decipher in between his thoughts frothing and fizzing inside his own head. He fears they might both burst from it before it's taken its natural course. But his beloved breaks the waters first and lets them engulf them.

"I would have..." he trails off, eyebrows furrowed in consternation, dying accents lingering in the air between them. And the corners of Yusuf's mouth twitch with a sly retort ready to be delivered through a wide grin, were it not for their eyes catching and Nicolò swallowing heavily, his lips curling, Yusuf grinding it out through his teeth instead, "When the apricots would bloom, no doubt."

Nicolò's fingers tighten. An insistent grip, but gentle. Yusuf feels his bones there aching regardless.

But the evening progresses, as evenings must, Nicolò's peach unshared between them, still Yusuf's alone, along with the best side of lamb and the fattest olives, richly dripping in olive oil, fleshy and dark.

That night, deep inside Nicolò's mouth and down his throat, Yusuf considers him—the curve of his nose, the flush gracing his cheeks, the length of his eyelashes. He keeps himself clean-shaven, which Yusuf doesn't quite understand but accepts easily.

Tracing his index finger over the edge of Nicolò's cheekbone and down his nose, he reaches the bow of his mouth where it's stretched around Yusuf's cock. It's Nicolò's eyelashes fluttering and the whites of his eyes showing as he gags himself infinitesimally lower that prompt Yusuf to act.

He shoves one hand into his hair and one at his left shoulder, effortlessly moving him about, but Nicolò instantly arches his shoulders back and brings his arms behind himself as well, and from Yusuf's vantage point hovering above him he can watch the ease with which he arranges his palms to the opposite elbow to hold himself steadily. A rush of air bursts out of him at the sight, the very idea of what Nicolò is offering him here. Their gazes meet and hold, and Yusuf's cock slides farther down Nicolò's throat, to the root, Nicolò's nose pressing into his groin where he inhales fitfully. Yusuf shudders and tightens his grip in Nicolò's hair, pulling a little at the strands, but Nicolò's gaze never wavers on his own.

He draws him away until the circle of his lips resides about halfway down his length, fingers clutching at the roots of his hair and the back of his neck, unblinkingly asking him to stay. Then he rocks his hips upwards, first tentatively, wary of hurting him, but gaining in confidence as his thrusts are accepted hungrily, almost lovingly. His strokes inside turn sharply forceful, hitting the back of Nicolò's throat each time he bottoms out, but Nicolò's body knows the shape of his cock intimately. His throat knows how to hug it _just right_.

Soon enough, his balls draw up. He's been coating the tender insides of Nicolò's mouth with his pre-come seemingly for hours, traces of it frothing at the edges of his lips from the sharpness of Yusuf's thrusts. Now, he feels as if he's about to empty his entire being inside of him. It takes another dozen strokes, tip to root each time, until his balls constrict and he pulls himself out so only the cockhead is within Nicolò's mouth as he spills.

Staring unseeingly at the domed-shaped ceiling above, his eyes water at the corners, muscles near cramping where his hips are straining to grind back in. But he prefers to watch Nicolò's throat working as he swallows everything, which he proceeds to do, milking him dry in heaves and pants, as if desperate to gather it all in his stomach.

As Yusuf's cock begins to soften in his mouth, it gently slips to catch on Nicolò's bottom lip. Hands finally slacking in his hair and sliding from the nape of his neck to hold his shoulders steady, Yusuf tries to regain his breaths, but finds the entire endeavour more difficult than usual. A laugh almost wants to bubble up at the absurdity of it, but his insides are warm and his heart is too tender for this moment in time to do much else than breathe.

Movements stiff, what with his arms still behind his back and his legs apart where he's kneeling at Yusuf's feet, Nicolò tips awkwardly forward within the confines of his hands. His shiver when his face nudges into his groin travels up Yusuf's arms. He noses at where sweat's gathered at the base of Yusuf's half-hard cock, licking it up greedily from the place behind his balls before sucking one and then the other into his mouth. Yusuf hisses, thighs widening to allow him the space, his chair squeaking with the movement.

All the while, his hips have shoved themselves against Yusuf's leg, pre-come drooling off the tip of his cock catching in his leg hairs. The more he humps against his shin, the wetter it becomes, until he finally moans around the tip of Yusuf's soft cock and comes in streaks up his leg to the roundness of his knee.

He then stoops to lave up Yusuf's shin several times, cleaning him, leaving the arch of his foot last to suck bruising kisses which might disappear within moments but leave Yusuf aching between his legs even though he's had his pleasure not minutes before. He dares to lean forward to again grasp at the top of his head and bring him back, perhaps a little rudely, but Nicolò is ahead of him, all but falling mouth-first to swallow him back down to the root, soft as he is.

Eyes rising and then never leaving him. Yusuf doesn't want to blink, but has to. Doesn't see Nicolò blinking at all. Just his fat pupils in his dark eyes, nothing but thin rings of blue-green left at the edges, as if to remind Yusuf what his beloved's eyes look like otherwise, because right now there doesn't seem to be a chance of anything other than blackness, rich and supple.

Too soon sensitive to Nicolò's mouth, Yusuf must pull him off his cock, fickle hurt already making him hiss between his teeth. He notices Nicolò's arms are no longer behind his back, so he yields his hold on him, confident he can balance on his own now. He expects him to finally rise, but instead watches him crouch awkwardly and finally lower himself to the floor, facefirst between Yusuf's feet where a few drops of his come have landed in a tacky mess. He licks them up as well, then nuzzles at the foot closest, licking along the arch to his ankle, tongue flattened to the skin and Yusuf's heart in his throat the entire time.

It hits something at the core of him to watch Nicolò like this. Steadies himself to finally stop him just as he does so on his own, rising at long last.

Once he's standing on shaky legs, his scraped knees heal before their eyes. His smile is soft, pupils blown still, stance wobbly yet oddly content. Yusuf reaches for him, but Nicolò moves first to fetch what is necessary for his nightly ablutions. Nicolò places a water basin near him before stepping outside as is his custom in such things. Afterwards, Yusuf moves aside to take the basin outside to empty it. On the lowest step to their front door, Nicolò sits with his own empty basin next to him. He smiles and helps Yusuf along with his, then they return inside for prayer and sleep.

The next morning, as has hardly ever happened before, Yusuf wakes first, this time having to nudge Nicolò awake from a deep sleep which seemingly refuses to relinquish him. He does so with butterfly kisses to his nose and cheeks and the underside of his jaw until he stirs, warmly content to return a dry kiss to Yusuf's lips before they both make their way outside of their bed and the day ahead.

Not much difference from one day to the next, except for visits to the market and odd jobs around the village, means they have a routine around their house and the little land they have around it. This day, Nicolò tends to the goats and the house, while Yusuf resumes his work in the garden, set on figuring out the drainage issue. He manages to sink ankle-deep into the mud he himself has created for his troubles, a frustrated sigh escaping him and choice words filling his head he refuses to utter out loud lest they should infuriate him further in their truth.

The dark, rich soil here refuses to budge after the smallest amount of time in the sun, and Yusuf must admit to himself that washing earlier than initially planned is the best course of action. He makes his way to the well only to realise the bucket is gone, which must mean Nicolò has brought it inside for the water he needs for the stew. Loathe to wait him out in this state, he makes his way to the front door, but lingers before opening it, uncertain about dragging the mud even a centimetre into the house Nicolò thoroughly cleans daily. His hesitation lasts mere moments, which is enough for Nicolò himself to open the door, faintly startled to catch him on the top step, though Yusuf privately swells at the small smile which blossoms on his face.

"I fear I have managed to make matters worse," he pronounces, staring down at his feet, Nicolò's gaze joining his.

"Oh," he decides on as a response, which is an improvement over what Yusuf's own head was calling him earlier.

Before he can ask for the bucket and his wash basin, Nicolò's eyes lock with his and he says, "You should not walk in the house," which is perfectly sound. But he then adds, "I was not yet using the water. I could use it now." And Yusuf's ears catch fire at the words, as does his face.

"Oh, yes?" he breathes, nearly swallowing his own tongue.

And Nicolò nods, hesitantly hopeful. Yusuf can see the latter settling in, and he can't help but to nod, because he has spoken of this to Nicolò, who has shown to understand that this is... not-clean— _and yet_ is offering nevertheless. And all the blood in Yusuf's body is flowing either to his head or his groin, but it's hardly distributed correctly, for he nods once more before Nicolò goes inside to fetch the water and the basin.

He returns promptly, a bar of hard soap also clutched in one hand. He sets everything on the top-most step by Yusuf's feet before pouring the water into the basin and foaming the soap inside, kneeling in order to do so. Only then does he take first one foot and then the other into his hands to discard Yusuf's sandals, which also need a thorough cleaning, Yusuf breathlessly watching all the while.

He should probably sit himself down rather than balance precariously with soap on his feet, slippery and wet, but Nicolò seems to be intending to take care of one foot first and only then move on to the other. If Yusuf weren't floating above his own body, he would commend him on his thoroughness. Instead, heat wells up in his chest, prickling at the underside of his jaw.

No need to explain presently that Yusuf was literally just in the mud and has brought a good chunk of it along. But the drying mud is being washed away in the now cloudy water, his skin clearing due to Nicolò's gentle rubbing. And this is undoubtedly strange territory, though, despite himself, he cannot utter any protests, because his love is good and kind and did, after all, offer.

The pressure is more than he could have thought, meticulous care in every gesture. And the night before, Nicolò's lips, his mouth, it was good, too. As his thoughts circle around each other, time is fleeting. It's like falling headfirst into a ravine. Which, needless to say, Yusuf has some experience with.

Once he is satisfied with his work, Nicolò raises his head to smile at him. His cheeks are flushed. Yusuf tells himself it's from the sun, even though Nicolò has hardly left the house since mid-morning.

The rest of the day, every single gesture and look and touch carries with it a strange veil of yearning, hardly dimmed by the hours or subsequent distance from each other. After their supper has been eaten and their clothes left to hang by the foot of their bed, Nicolò presses him to the cool sheets, a deep blackness to his eyes Yusuf wants to look at always, and climbs on top to rut their pricks together for ages until they both spill messily across their bellies. Yusuf almost doesn't want to wash at all, content to hold his love close and bask in the sticky delight of his presence, but they do disentangle eventually, the night not yet over.

With their nightly customs observed, he is free to lie back in their bed watching the lines of light play into shadows across the walls. Nicolò is a warm weight in his arms, head lolling back onto his shoulder. As more of an afterthought to Nicolò's languid sprawl than an action with any real intent behind it, he presses his nose into the wisps of hair at the top of Nicolò's head, inhaling deeply. Even the memory of his scent wakes longing within him; like this, it inflames him, blood heating, though sleep catches up to him soon enough before his ache can find completion again. He only stirs once afterwards, confused at the sudden disappearance of Nicolò's warmth, but then the sore light prickling at his eyelids extinguishes itself and Nicolò returns to him, blanketing his body with his. Then oblivion.

The following morning comes too quickly, but, then again, it always does, Yusuf unprepared every single time. At least Nicolò's teasing over the years has turned to gentle kisses and brief pokes at his limbs and sides.

The day starts out normal enough, but Yusuf feels himself slightly off-balance for no apparent reason, and then he almost over-balances in his chair, one of its legs in need of adjustment. Nicolò frowns at it curiously, but Yusuf assures him it can be effortlessly fixed, that afternoon in fact, and, in response, Nicolò brushes a curl from his forehead as he passes him clearing up the table.

It turns out that taking the time away from the rest of the household in order to mend the chair proves surpringly difficult, the goats acting up throughout the entire morning and Nicolò gone into the village for supplies, but he manages to spare more than a couple of minutes when it's about early afternoon, Nicolò likely to return soon for their midday meal together.

He's sitting in the sole chair not in need of repairs, fiddling with the other chair's leg before fetching his tools from across the room, when Nicolò enters the house, satchel full and brow weary.

"The road, I swear, lengthens each day." Yusuf smiles crookedly, about to offer the suggestion that perhaps Nicolò is simply getting old, when his beloved blandly asks, "Is it not yet fixed?"

"The goats," Yusuf explains.

"Ah," Nicolò replies, but his expression becomes thoughtful.

Normally, Yusuf would return his focus to the task at hand, but there's something about Nicolò's bearing, the way he's holding himself, sandals discarded by the door along with his satchel, not exactly observant of his surroundings as digging into some hidden part of himself before acting. He crosses the room, Yusuf's eyes tracking his every movement, chair discarded to the side, watches him pick the oil by their nightstand up and gingerly carry it back, lingering by the table in front of Yusuf, placing it on its surface and leaning his arms back, legs a little splayed in front of him.

"I thought it would be fixed," he pronounces grandly.

"It's not," Yusuf says back, voice gruff.

"I would like to sit. The road has tired me." His pupils are blown, making his eyes, already large and deep-set, deeper still. His nails are idly scratching at the wood beneath his fingertips.

Yusuf swallows heavily. Mutters, "This is the only good chair." His legs open a little, a muscle in his thigh jumping. His cock is already hard and his head is pleasantly fuzzy. Nicolò watches him like a hawk, then swiftly discards his tunic and loose trousers, standing nude in front of him, his cock half-hard and filling rapidly under Yusuf's gaze. Then he grabs for the oil to slick his fingers before reaching between his own legs, wrist stretching as far back as it can, all the while Yusuf is watching from his seat, mesmerised and hard enough to pound nails.

As if through a daze, he extends one arm to grip with shaky fingers at his hip bone. Nicolò swallows harshly, frowning through seemingly the most exquisite of pain, but doesn't pay him much mind, his own fingers working to open him up, teeth biting into his bottom lip hard enough to leave dents for a matter of seconds.

It's probably too soon, but Nicolò dislodges his hand from between his legs and takes one step forward. Yusuf counts this as encouragement to bring him closer, his other hand moving to parallel the other.

A broad palm encircles his wrist in an instant, cobra-quick, thumb pressing into the swell of meat there, and guides it to the armrest, pressure suggestive. A spark of dark heat coupled with an uncertain lurching in his stomach drives his other hand on its own terms towards echoing its fellow on the other chair arm, leaving Nicolò's side as it does, and Nicolò's shoulders unsubtly untense as he watches, a delicate wonder in his look.

Sometimes, he looks at Yusuf as if it were hurting him to do so. Those times, Yusuf wants to tell him his heart hurts, too. All the time. But the moment always passes, his beloved already in his arms more often than not.

Unlacing Yusuf's own trousers, Nicolò breaches fully the distance between them. Once his cock is finally out, he finds Nicolò's back pressing into his chest while his fingers scramble at Yusuf's thighs for balance before leaning back with a serene sigh. Wondering for an instant if his beloved truly plans to use him as a chair, he gasps when the oiled hand he used on himself suddenly clutches at Yusuf's cock to guide him inside, allowing him to bottom out in one quick thrust, leaving Nicolò quavering in his arms, keening in distress, though it's short-lived, a rough moan filling the air a moment later.

"Love me," he croaks, eventually, _finally_. Then he bows his head forward, hair falling away to reveal the nape of his neck, his lower back arching sharply, seemingly satisfied to grind himself into Yusuf's lap with his cock buried to the root.

Nuzzling into the hair at the back of his head—smelling pleasantly of soap and clean sweat, both comforting and mouth-watering—knuckles white on the chair's arms, Yusuf allows himself a fierce thrust into the clutch of his body before opening his legs farther to balance Nicolò's weight and pressing the outside of his thighs to the chair's wide seat.

"Let me," he tries. Pleads.

"Like this," Nicolò moans, his voice a couple of timbre too low, and Yusuf bites down in the crook of his neck, but his palms lie flat and trembling.

He lets him. Oh, he _lets him_. He doesn't have enough air in his lungs to say how much he lets him indeed. Wants to offer himself whole, though Nicolò already has him. Rough grinds on Yusuf's cock, accompanied by moans and grunts and pants, follow. Yusuf's toes curl against the cold floor with every twitch of Nicolò's hole around him, lost for words, barely aware of Nicolò spitting into his own palm to grasp at himself sooner than would be normal for him when they are like this, but deeply contented to know he is taking his pleasure of Yusuf's body. Pleased he is using Yusuf's cock to satisfy himself.

Minutes pass, or perhaps hours, Yusuf rocking upwards every once in a while, but mostly breathing Nicolò's scent in as he tries to hold himself in check. Delay the inevitable rush. With Nicolò's body eagerly milking him, however, Yusuf has little choice but to surrender, torso lurching forward, throbbing and spilling inside, gasping wetly into the nape of his neck as Nicolò clenches around him, a finer hurt none could imagine.

Nicolò doesn't let off, chasing his own pleasure, as he should. He breathes, " _Oh,_ " like a refrain swimming about the curtains of Yusuf's mind. Oh, oh, _oh_ , an interminable cusp spread out before him in every keening vowel until his back arches, shoulders pushing back into Yusuf's chest, trembling fingers pressing his cockhead into his belly, spunk streaking upwards and along the sides in thick globs Yusuf wants to lick up.

Panting breaths give way to a contented sigh redolent of the languor of the sweetest afterglow. And Nicolò does stir to grasp at his wrists to bring them up from the chair's arms to his own chest for Yusuf to encircle him, which he does, craving skin all of a sudden, and Nicolò's trembly kisses to his knuckles press inside his bones as surely as a hatchet bursts wood.

They must move, surely too quickly, though Yusuf's head is buzzing pleasantly, a steadfast humming leaching into his senses, blurring them gratifyingly. But Nicolò is never far from him the entirety of the day, always within grasping distance, which Yusuf does often, barely content to allow him to slip from his arms despite the chores at hand.

It isn't until night has fallen on another day, the sizzling heat letting out finally, that Yusuf's head returns to normal. But his greed does not.

It feels like an indulgence, because it is.

"I want to have you again," he whispers between them like a secret the other already knows. And he doesn't know what he expects, but Nicolò does not disappoint, he never disappoints, he only quenches his thirst lest Yusuf should perish, by saying, "You have me," serious and almost sombre, and his limbs move about the bed until he is lying on his back, opening himself on his fingers, Yusuf hardly able to touch him enough to quell his need until finally his fingers leave his pink, slick rim for Yusuf's cock to breach.

Despite the near-desperation upon him as he crawls into the cradle of Nicolò's hips, he wants to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear and gaze into his eyes all the while, but Nicolò groans on the first push in, "My heart," and then, smaller, "my life," and his body clutches and squeezes at him shamelessly, deliciously, and all Yusuf can do is brace himself on his elbows and core him into the bed, rough thrusts shifting them up the mattress to bottom out on every grind inside as Nicolò's heels at the small of his back urge him on wantonly, his nails scratching at his shoulders, mouths panting shallow breaths into each other.

"Like this, like this, always like this," his Nicolò moans, and Yusuf has to oblige, having lost long ago the will to do anything but.

Their little house on this rock, how much he needs this man—it feels as if Destiny has seen fit to bring them together and bind them up. He knows they'll have to move on, years showing on everyone else but them would bring on more trouble than it's worth, but, while they're here, while they're living this life of theirs, he vows it will be like this day after day, bodies meeting over and over again until they scream their pleasure for the sea to hear.

Even as his thrusts stumble, the edge nearing in waves and rushes, he pants, "My heart," and Nicolò's eyes shine back at him in the candlelight, foreheads pressed together, and Yusuf swears he sees only himself in the rich darkness of his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, peach trees were introduced to Malta [after 1492](http://www.maltawildplants.com/ROSA/Prunus_persica.php).
> 
> The idea for this story was loosely inspired by a particular Kink Meme prompt (you may know which one). However, as it has probably become readily apparent if you've made it this far, I have a completely different take on the whole "Malta was a prolonged D/s session" idea. The original prompt's requirements aren't really my speed, so I wrote my own version of events, as it were. I did want to credit the initial inspiration for the story, though.
> 
> As much as I love kudos and comments and talking about Joe and Nicky with you guys, I'm just really freaking excited you're here for this story. But, also, like, GIVE ME VALIDATION, I GUESS?!? :D Was it hot? Was it schmoopy? Am I a closet romantic or what? ;) Let me know!
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


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